Time

I remember sitting in a friend's kitchen in the week before Dad died.  It was 7:30p, she was making soup, we were drinking wine and eating something I had brought over (hummus and chips?  I can't remember now).  Her boyfriend was busy unpacking boxes of books and CDs and "albums" and other artifacts- they had been together more than eight years but just moved into a new apartment with more bedrooms and shoe closets and office space than one could imagine and a neat view of the park across the street.  The cat was still hiding under the bed in one of the offices.  Life was good, promising, exciting.  I felt that with them. 

I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen; that much I remember.  I had nothing and everything to say, and so did my friend.  Neither of us had been this close to death before.  To her credit, she readily admitted that she didn't know what to say, and I loved her for that.  I opened my mouth and didn't know what would come out.  Turns out, it was the most random, technical, boring stuff.  I had nothing to say about the hours I had spent by Dad's bedside that day; how I brought my yoga mat to practice while he slept; how the Hospice nurse came three different times to check on him.  I couldn't talk about how his breathing started and stopped; his eyes were closed but fluttered occasionally; how his body softened when I lay next to him.  Instead, my mind had gone numb and I could only think about the concrete stuff. 

"Now I know some of the answers that will be with me forever," I said.  "Dad died in Jun 2012.  Dad died when he was 87.  Dad died when I was 32 (it was 13 days before my birthday).  Dad died in June."  On that Thursday evening (Dad died five days later on Tuesday, June 19), I had some of the answers.  I never wanted to know these things.  But now they are with me forever.  It's been 59 days since June 19th, 2012.  Dad was 87.  I am now 33.  Somehow, time has passed.  I don't know how.  But still...I am not the same person I was (before).  Not in the slightest.  I have been through every emotion, sometimes in one day, one hour, one minute.  I have had panic attacks, cried in the grocery store, melted down at work, hyperventilated in a bar, had horrible nightmares, had peaceful dreams, had the best hugs from friends and co-workers, read the most touching cards, sent the most raw e-mails, struggled through grief therapy, read all the books, let go of more than I could have imagined. 

Dad with a doggie friend at
Three Crowns, December 2008

Today a dear friend lost her mother.  We first met four years ago at Dad's first assisted living facility and stayed in touch long after Dad got kicked out (for bad behavior- that's my Henry!).  Over the years we've shared drinks, e-mails, pictures, texts, hugs, tears.  I saw her yesterday and we both knew it was close.  Hours, the Hospice team said.  She was my last thought before I went to bed last night and my second thought after I woke up this morning (Dad is always my first). 

When I got her text this afternoon my heart dropped.  I was at  work but as soon as I had a break I retreated to my office for a few minutes and gave her a call.  Her voice, my voice, our words...it was all like a strange memory, I wanted to do everything,  I wanted to make it better, I had just been there 8 weeks ago.  There was nothing I could do.  We both knew that.  But we were on the phone together.  We talked.  She talked.  I listened.  She was heading out to take her sister back to the airport.  Was she okay to drive, I asked?  Her son would drive, she said- it was good practice.  We exchanged our love, promised to make plans to get together.  I gave her titles of two books that have helped me in the past two months.  She promised to look them up.  We hung up the phone. 

I finished my afternoon at work, went swimming.  Thought that today was August 17, 2012.  My friend would always remember it. 

Every day is a gift.  I want to do something every day to remember.  Today is Day 59, but is also the day that I went to a random art gallery opening by myself and wore a huge orange t-shirt at work celebrating our employee recognition initiatives.  Today is Friday.  As one of my residents and I yelled in the elevator, "Today is Friday!  Friday, fish day!  Is everybody happy?  Then I must say..."

But everybody is not happy, and I wish love and peace tonight to "everybody."